Ink Spots
by threebears
Summary: An anthology about falling in love beneath a hole in the sky. f!Lavellan/Josephine. Rating subject to change. (Updates will be pokey but I'm not done with this one yet!)
1. Mediations

**I've decided I'm most productive when I can switch back and forth between writing two things at once. So, while I work on Spitfire I'm also going to be working on this! It's just been an idea that's been kicking around in my head since Inquisition dropped, and now I finally have time to actually turn it into something, which is really very exciting for me.**

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Rhea Lavellan is tall, for an elf. Lithe, like Leliana, but not as full-figured; powerful, like Cullen and Cassandra, but not as compactly muscled. She seems to temper the passions of the Inquisition's leaders simply by existing.

Josephine is incredibly grateful for it.

Presently, they debate whether to reach out to either the mages or the Templars for an alliance in sealing the Breach. The argument is so circular that Josephine fears she may actually grow nauseous from it, should it continue to spiral.

She sighs, examining the rough transcript of the dispute she had been maintaining for the past hour or so. Every time she thinks she catches someone make a novel point, she begins to write it down, only to notice that it is already on the page, ink dried for some time. They'd been at it for hours, and it surprises Josephine to see the normally synchronized group so at odds with one another.

What also surprises her is the Herald's relative silence throughout their meeting. The elven mage sits in her usual plain wooden chair, eyes searching the map spread across the war table as if the answer was somewhere to be found among the figurines strategically placed along the battered parchment.

Josephine finds her gaze wandering toward the Herald more frequently than is considered professional. She tells herself it's because she anticipates the elf to interject at some point, to break her expansive silence. It is not because her auburn hair, normally tied into a messy bun atop her head, now tumbles in loose waves over her shoulders and down her back in a most distracting way.

It has been becoming customary for the Herald to spend time during the afternoon with Josephine, sipping tea with the Inquisition's ambassador and making light conversation between lectures about the intricacies of human politics. It is time spent together that Josephine has recently realized she looks forward to, almost unconsciously, every day. The Dalish mage came from a clan that apparently held enough interest in human affairs to send one of their only mages to spy on a summit organized by the Divine. This intrigued Josephine when she first received a report from Leliana about the sole survivor of the Conclave explosion; the Dalish aren't known for having _any_ interest in humans whatsoever. Even so, the Herald's understanding of human culture remains tenuous at best. Josephine hopes she helps.

She glances once again at the elf. Her almond-shaped brown eyes have turned from the war map to the assembled advisers, observing. Josephine notes that she vaguely resembles a barn owl, though not in an unappealing way at all.

Josephine abandons her attempts to keep any record of the debate. Cullen slams his fist on the table for the umpteenth time. Cassandra makes a disgusted noise. Leliana paces back and forth as she continues to champion for the Redcliffe mages. The Herald remains quiet, adjusting the bearskin cloak draped over her shoulders. They lapse into silence.

Finally, she clears her throat.

"I agree with Leliana." The Herald says, her tone low and even. Cullen and Cassandra open their mouths, ready to begin the argument anew, but pointed glares from both Leliana and Josephine effectively silence them.

"Go on then, Rhea." Cullen murmurs reluctantly. Josephine is surprised that they are on a first-name basis. The Herald nods, and then stands.

"Perhaps I'm biased, but I think mages are the best equipped to deal with the Fade. I know nothing of your Templars." She says, her Dalish accent thick around her every word. "I'm closing the Breach. I would have familiar power behind me, rather than something foreign. I cannot trust anything but what I know."

Cullen draws a gloved hand over his face. Cassandra's jaw is tight. Leliana looks pleased.

The Herald sits back down, rubbing her marked hand. The strange glowing mark is concealed by a black leather glove, but the Herald does not complain of it often. The elf's doe-brown eyes are then trained on Josephine. The ambassador feels her pulse quicken just barely.

"What do you think?" The Herald asks. Josephine clears her throat.

"I think the cost of importing lyrium, at least by my tally, is slightly lessened by allying with the mages." She says, tapping the calculation with her quill. It is something she thinks worth considering, though nobody had brought it up prior. "You are the only one who can close the Breach, my lady. I think the priority lies in selecting the group you are most comfortable relying upon."

The Herald gives Josephine an appreciative, but fleeting, smile. Cassandra lets out a pinched sigh.

"I do agree with Josephine on that count." The Seeker says. "I will support whatever you decide is best."

"I will as well." Cullen adds after a long pause.

And just like that, hours of vicious debate are concluded. Peacefully. Josephine wonders why the Herald did not speak up sooner.

Cullen and Cassandra leave to conduct drills with the Inquisition recruits. The Herald stands to leave as well, but is stopped by Leliana. The spymaster is organizing several scrolls with which to brief the elf about their mission to Redcliffe. Josephine smiles wryly. Leliana _must_ have suspected which way the Herald would lean, to have prepared so thoroughly.

At the end of the day, personal bias ultimately wins out, and the Dalish mage did not disprove that theory. Nevertheless, Josephine agrees that it is the right decision. The Templars have proven themselves too heavy-handed to make compliant allies, while the mages would likely be grateful for any substantial support. The Inquisition still holds enough Templars in their ranks as it is; the threat of abominations cropping up could be dealt with easily enough. Especially with Cullen in command.

Josephine moves her messy transcript to the bottom of the sheaf of paper she carries on her writing board.

"I will compose a missive to Redcliffe at your command." She says to Leliana. The former bard nods, then returns to briefing the Herald, pointing to something on the document laid out before them.

Josephine decides she's spent enough time in the war room for one day. Though it is mercifully warm, it is also rather stuffy. She returns to her own office just a door down, pleased to note that the fire burning in the hearth had not gone out. Sharing the space with a former mage of the Circle is rapidly proving itself to be a definite perk, although Minaeve insists daily that she is "really no good at magic".

She sits, her knees groaning in relief. Josephine is young, barely past her twenty sixth year, but lately her joints had been behaving as if she'd aged fifty years. She chalks it up to the altitude and weather in Haven and begins rifling through the stacks of letters amassed on her desk.

None of them strike her as being of particular importance, so she settles on the first one. Some inconsequential Comte has been sending raven after raven insisting that Haven is, rightfully, his land. She asked for a contract at several points during their correspondence and has yet to receive so much as an acknowledgment that there even _is_ one. Still, the Comte is insistent, and Josephine fears a "diplomatic intervention" is in her horizon if he makes good on his promises to pay Haven a visit in the near future.

There is a hole in the sky, and still nobles squabble like they always have. Josephine reviles it, but it truly is a testament to the stubborn arrogance of the human spirit.

She is nearly done with her reply to the Comte's latest vitriolic dispatch when there is a tentative knock on the study door. It is a knock she's come to recognize, and a smile lights her lips, briefly.

"Come in, Herald." She intones quietly, laying away her quill beside the now half-empty ink pot. The elf treads in silently, exchanging a nod with Minaeve as she passes the researcher's desk.

Josephine wonders what it must be like for both of them to see someone from such a similar background end up such a radically different position. She supposes the only real difference between Minaeve and the Herald was the number of mages in their clan when they were born. Josephine wonders who is the luckier of the two.

The Herald clears her throat, and Josephine notices the scrolls she carries in her arms. The fair-skinned elf smiles crookedly.

"Apparently, this was too much for Leliana to carry over." She says, setting each scroll neatly upon the polished oak of Josephine's desk. "Our spymaster certainly loves to delegate."

Josephine chuckles, gathering up the documents and giving a few of them a quick once-over.

"Creating busy-work is a secret hobby of hers these days." She says, sorting out the most immediately important papers and rolling them back up. "It's mundane enough to be comforting, I suppose."

The Herald smiles, and Josephine notices for the first time that it makes her eyes crease in a most adorable way.

"In a Dalish camp, I suppose everything is busy work. Trying to stay alive on the road and whatnot. So I'm used to it." She says, her tone suddenly wistful. Everyone is homesick, but it must be very trying indeed to be both homesick and surrounded by an entirely unfamiliar race and culture. Josephine feels a pang of sympathy for the Herald.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Josephine offers lightly. The Herald brightens a bit.

"Do you have any of the royal elfroot left?" She asks, pulling up a rickety chair to the desk. Josephine nods, standing to gather up the tea kettle and mugs from the mantle.

She sets everything before the Herald and begins to sort through the drawer of her desk that only the Herald, Minaeve, and Leliana know of. Leliana calls it her "comfort drawer". It is filled with pouches of loose-leaf tea, small candies, scented candles from Orlais, colorful pots of ink imported from Par Vollen, and dried, pressed flowers native to Antiva. She smiles when she finds a tea bag for the Herald, (royal elfroot; bitterer than anything Josephine has ever tasted in her life, but it's the Herald's favorite), then searches around for anything that strikes her own mood. She settles with mint.

The Herald already has the kettle steaming by the time Josephine hands her the tea bags. The elf's mastery of the elements surprised Josephine in its practical uses. The Herald explained that most of her practice, when training to be the Keeper's First, was directed toward domestic necessities. Lighting fires, melting snow, drying clothes, and the like; all essentially chores.

The Herald smiles as she pours the steaming water into each mug.

"You know, I really used to resent having to do this for my clan every night." She says easily. "But it's actually very useful."

Josephine hums her agreement as she dips her tea bag into her mug.

"I don't think I will ever be content to wait for the hearth to warm the kettle again, Herald." She says, smiling conspiratorially at the elf.

"Call me Rhea."

Josephine lifts her spoon, pressing the tea bag against the lip of her mug and draining any remaining water from the leaves. She prefers her tea weak.

"Rhea…" Josephine repeats, exploring the way the name feels on her tongue. It rolls cleanly, in Josephine's Antivan lilt. The elf clears her throat.

"I know you have to call me Herald in front of everyone else. Keeping up appearances and all that." She says, stirring her own tea. "But I'd like to think we're familiar enough for you to use my real name."

Josephine hides the flush of warmth gracing her cheeks by taking a sip of her tea.

"It's strange, being called one thing all my life. Then that changed in one day." Rhea says, tracing her finger around the rim of her mug. "I still don't always respond to 'Herald'."

Josephine rests her tea on a knitted coaster she made in finishing school. It's an atrocious blend of orange and forest-green.

"I can relate." She says softly, her eyes settling on the Dalish elf across from her. "Once, I was just Josie. Now I'm _Ambassador Montilyet_ , diplomatic liaison of the Inquisition to the rest of Thedas."

Rhea smiles gently. Josephine, despite herself, feels her heart continue to patter in her breast. The other woman is disconcertingly beautiful, at times. The firelight plays across her tawny hair, giving it an almost ethereal gleam. Her eyes are large, a trademark of her race. The olive-green blood markings splayed across her rosy cheeks and forehead are subtle, branching out like tree limbs. Josephine thinks she must have had suitors lining up for her across clan divisions. But there is a certain feral edge to the woman. Her smile is just crooked enough, and her cheekbones are high and proud. There is something quick and sharp in those large doe-eyes as well. They are soft, but at times gleam like chipped amber under the sun. Her appearance is… intoxicating in a way Josephine has not been able to fully figure out since her arrival in Haven weeks ago. She supposes it's only a matter of time before half the camp is smitten with their Herald, if they aren't already.

Rhea takes a long sip of her tea, eyes dancing as she gazes at the fire.

"Well, in here, you're Josie to me." She says finally. Josephine nods, thinking that she likes the way her name sounds wrapped in the elf's thick Dalish drawl.

"It's nice to have a reminder that we haven't sacrificed our identities for the sake of the Inquisition." Josephine says, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the desk.

"Not entirely, at least." Rhea says, winking slyly. Josephine chuckles.

"Such is the nature of duty, I suppose." She sighs. "One day, I was destined to become Lady of whatever house I was married into, and you were destined to become Keeper Lavellan."

"I suppose our current titles are more interesting, to say the least." The elf says, lifting her mug.

Josephine lifts hers with a smirk and clinks them together. As she sips her tea, Josephine notices that Minaeve is no longer at her desk. She wonders when she left.

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 **Any and all feedback is appreciated, and as always, thank you so much for reading!**


	2. Chinophobia

" _I shouldn't be alive."_ She thinks.

She is cold. She has never been so cold. She does not know where she is, but she knows one thing.

" _I should not be alive."_

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Rhea wakes up with too many hands pressed against her. Some are warming, some are mending. They are all too suffocating. She jerks upright, earning a few surprised yelps from the healers surrounding her. A pair of large, firm hands presses her back down.

"Relax." A strong voice urges. The blonde man swims into view and her brow furrows. She tries to brush his hands away as she sits back up.

"Cullen, I'm-"

"Josephine."

Cullen says Josie's name, but it sounds like a command. Rhea is confused. Warm hands are suddenly upon her shoulders, guiding her to a softer pillow than was there before. Ochre eyes gaze down at her.

"Josie-" She begins, but is interrupted once again, this time by searing pain shooting down her right leg. She hisses, trying to writhe away from the offensive agony. Those warm hands are present once again, stroking her cheeks, which are wet for some reason.

"I want you to breathe, Rhea." Josephine says, her voice naught but a soft purr. "Deeply. With me."

The elf frowns but complies, pacing her breathing with that of the woman cradling her head in her lap. The pain comes again, but this time it is more bearable than before. Each breath brings scents she has come to associate with comfort; parchment, jasmine, candlewax, and mint, but there's something else. Rhea opens her eyes and sees Josephine hovering above her, lips bowed. The smooth, brown skin of her neck is an ugly, angry, puckered burn on one side. Blood, dried and fresh, cake the wound. Rhea jerks upright, but is brought back down once more. Forcefully, this time.

"Josephine-!" Rhea growls. The Antivan woman shakes her head obstinately.

"They will tend to me when they are done with you." She says, as if the matter is settled. Rhea supposes that it is. She isn't in much of a position to do anything about it.

Cullen laughs softly.

"Glad to see there is fight in you so soon." He says. His armor clinks. "We will need it. I'll let Leliana and Cassandra know you're awake."

There is a flood of cold air, and the commander is gone. Rhea sighs mightily. The worst of the pain has passed, she thinks. She thanks the healers as they shuffle out of the tent, and one remains to examine Josephine's burn. The ambassador sits patiently while the mage probes at the wound with glowing fingers. In minutes, it is as if there was never any damage at all, save for a small pink splotch that could easily be mistaken for a birthmark. Josephine thanks the woman, who then ducks out into the cold. Several fat snowflakes whisk into the tent.

"Where are we, Josie?"

The Antivan woman frowns, tapered brows furrowing.

"Somewhere in the Frostback Mountains." She says. "We can't tell where exactly, though. The snow is falling too densely for our scouts to get far past camp."

Rhea groans, sitting up. Josephine doesn't stop her. She pulls her hair from the loose bun atop her head and shakes it loose. It falls in tangles over her shoulders. She remembers everything that happened at Haven with stark clarity. She knots her fingers in her hair. There will be time to think it over if they manage to evade the risk of freezing or starving to death.

"I should be out there." Rhea says hoarsely. Josephine tuts.

"They have been bickering for hours." She says. Rhea chuckles bitterly.

"Isn't it _our_ job to rein them all in when they get like that?"

Josephine shakes her head in exasperation, but her lips are twisted into the faintest suggestion of a smile. Rhea feels just a bit warmer, seeing it.

"I think you have done enough for one day, my lady." Josephine says kindly. The elf sighs, then stands. As much as she can in the cramped tent, at least.

"I should be out there, still."

"If you _must_ , but do not exert yourself." Josephine says resignedly. "Mother Giselle has been asking about your condition incessantly, I think she would appreciate a moment with you."

Rhea nods, gathering up her trusty bear-fur cloak. She is glad to see it made it out of Haven in one piece. She clasps it across her collarbone and pulls on her gloves and boots. She turns back to Josephine and flashes a half-hearted smile before venturing from the tent.

Josie wasn't exaggerating about the snow. It whips through the frigid night air viciously. There must have be some sort of barrier cast around the camp, because there are fires roaring that shouldn't be, given the weather. It's still cold, though.

Rhea draws her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she scans the camp for Mother Giselle. A kind woman; one Rhea had become incredibly dependent on for counsel during their tenure in Haven. Even if Josephine hadn't encouraged her to speak with the older woman, Rhea would have sought her out on her own. She sees her at the far edge of camp, tending to the wounded as she had been the day they met at the Crossroads. The elf makes toward her, though her leg is still stiff and she stumbles. Swearing, she continues to slog through the snow until the Mother happens to look up and catch her approaching. She hurries to Rhea's side, seemingly gliding through the shin-deep snow, and offers an arm. Rhea accepts with a nod of gratitude and allows herself to be led to one of the cots, sheltered beneath an awning.

"You cannot know how glad I am to see you alive, Herald." Mother Giselle says, her eyes twinkling despite it all. Rhea smiles wanly.

"Your Maker seems to have made me indestructible." She says. Mother Giselle clucks at her, but her eyes remain the same. "Have they managed to figure anything out while I've been… out of things?" She asks, gesturing at the advisors. Josephine has joined them once more, and they cast unreadable glances her way. Rhea swallows, looking away.

"Only that shouting at one another does nothing to ease our situation." Mother Giselle says wearily. "Though they continue to do so."

Rhea sighs, her breath clouding thickly in a puff that cascades away into the raging white of the snow overhead.

"I don't have any better suggestions." She says. Mother Giselle places a reassuring hand over her own.

"They look to you, now." She says, dark eyes heavy. Rhea swallows.

"Me?" She asks, shaking her head. "I haven't been leading the Inquisition. And now, I don't think it's any time for me to start. Corypheus-"

"They see the Herald of Andraste as the only one who stood up to Corypheus. They saw you fall, then rise again, despite everything that creature did to ensure otherwise."

Rhea frowns.

"But I didn't _fall_." She says. "I didn't rise from the dead, that isn't _possible_. I escaped."

Mother Giselle studies her face. She is matronly, reminding Rhea greatly of her own Keeper in that regard. She feels just as self-conscious under the human woman's gaze.

"What matters to the people is what they saw. What they _think_ they saw." She says. "They saw you lead the charge when the attack began, and they saw you run back into the fray to save their lives. They have filled in the gaps on their own, and to them you are a hero. Some may believe you are sent by the Maker and some may see you simply as a beacon of hope for your perseverance. Commander Cullen, Ambassador Montilyet, Seeker Pentaghast, Sister Nightingale… They are all _leaders_ of the Inquisition. But you are its true source of inspiration. They follow _you_ now, Herald."

Mother Giselle sighs, folding her hands in her lap.

Rhea is at a loss for words. She shakes her head, as if doing so will shake off the crushing weight of responsibility suddenly settling across her shoulders. She looks toward the advisers. They have quieted, all looking resigned in their own way. Leliana gazes into the fire, expression blank. Cassandra paces a trail in the snow. Cullen is at the edge of camp, staring into the impenetrable night. Josephine stands before their makeshift war table, wringing her hands helplessly. Rhea feels her heart sink. She stands, gathering her cloak around her.

"Thank you, Mother Giselle. I will... think on it." She says. The older woman gives her a tight smile. Rhea joins Josephine at the war table, the stiffness in her leg easing incrementally with every step. She gazes at the map. She knows they are lost, but they have to be _somewhere_. If they are somewhere, then they can go somewhere _else_. She runs a gloved finger along the small peaks of the Frostbacks etched on the parchment.

"If staring at the map somehow transported you to wherever you fancied, where would it take you?" Josephine asks suddenly. She stands close, arm pressed to Rhea's through the layers of their respective cloaks. The elf smiles. The question is so silly, so innocuous, and so needed right now. She thinks for a moment, then taps near where the Free Marches border Antiva.

"That's where we were, just before the Keeper got word of the Conclave." She says, her lips twisting into a bittersweet smile. "The weather was perfect there, every single day."

Josephine traces her finger along the map until she reaches Antiva City, just barely above Rhea's. Their fingers graze for the briefest of moments, and even through her lined gloves, it causes her breath to catch in her throat.

"That is where the primary Montilyet estate is. It is beautiful. Sprawling gardens, immense, stain glass windows, and it is only a stone's throw from the docks." The ambassador says. Rhea studies her face carefully. It's drawn, paler than she'd ever seen it. Josephine's lips tremble ever so slightly. The elf wants so badly to reach out and smooth the worried creases that sweep across her friend's face. Instead, she balls her hand into a fist and lightly taps it against Josephine's shoulder.

"You'll see it again, you know." She says, then clears her throat. "I don't know if it's at all possible for someone as radiant as you to be stuck out here in the snow for long. You'll have probably melted all of it by the time we break camp."

This brings a flush to Josephine's cheeks.

"Flatterer." She mutters, her tone only halfheartedly accusatory.

"It's only flattery if it stretches the truth." Rhea retorts, smiling slyly at the other woman. Josephine swats her arm lightly.

"I do not know whether it was your goal to embarrass me or to bring a smile to my face. Either way, you have succeeded."

Rhea laughs hoarsely. She is glad to hear it.

They lapse into silence. No matter who she seems to talk to, the gravity of their situation makes it impossible to enjoy any conversation for too long. The wind howls sharply, and it irritates her particularly sensitive ears. She leans over the map once again, eyes hunting for anything charted as a landmark in the Frostbacks. If she could just find _something_ , then they could figure out a way to get off this gods-forsaken mountain. But there is nothing. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

" _We can't have escaped Haven just to die on a sodding mountain."_ She thinks, her throat growing hot. The advisers have gathered around the fire. Cullen and Leliana whisper to one another, but do not make eye contact. Cassandra's jaw is taut enough that it looks as if it could break. They all gaze balefully into the blaze. She turns to Josephine. The ambassador gazes at her. Her eyes, a pale gold in the weak firelight, are overwhelmed with loss, fear, and hope. Rhea swallows, trying to steel herself enough to look… she doesn't know. Confident, resolved, like a leader? But she doesn't know how. She's been a figurehead for the Inquisition, one of their agents, but never a _leader_. She thinks about Mother Giselle's words and feels her heart grow heaver still. Her gaze slips from Josephine and falls to the powdery snow that dusts her boots.

" _Shadows fall and hope has fled…_

 _Steel your heart, the dawn will come."_

Rhea's head inclines at the sound of Mother Giselle's rich singing voice. She'd come to recognize it over the past weeks. She sang often in Haven's Chantry. Still, Rhea frowns. She has not heard the song before.

" _The night is long and the path is dark,_

 _Look to the sky, for one day soon…_

 _The dawn will come."_

Her eyes sweep around the camp. Leliana joins in, lilting above Mother Giselle's sweeping tenor. Soon, everyone is singing. Their voices crash together, and though Rhea is unfamiliar with the words, she feels her skin rise into gooseflesh under her thick furs. She watches the Inquisition, all of it, sing together in unity until the screech of the wind can no longer be heard above their voices.

Josephine sings beside her; she is still watching Rhea intently. But now hope seems to be the only thing reflected in her eyes. Hope, but also something infinitely tender that Rhea can't seem to place. She swallows hard and looks away, her eyes wandering back over the bulk of their forces once again. As their song draws to a close, many eyes are on her. Expectant. Admiring.

Rhea sees Solas at the edge of the crowd that has gathered. The older elf inclines his head subtly, beckoning her over. She follows him through the throng of soldiers, mages, Templars, and refugees, consciously aware they are all watching her. She is grateful for the moment to duck out. She is… overwhelmed, to say the least. The pair of elves step away from the main camp, to where Solas has set up his own tent. He lights a torch, blue fire flickering into being with a casual wave of his hand. Rhea examines it closely. It's veilfire. How curious.

Solas gazes at her silently for a moment. Rhea respects the elf immensely, but his silver eyes have always disquieted her to a degree. He smiles flickeringly at her.

"It would seem you are to lead us, lethallan." He says. His causal use of elvish has always been a comfort to her.

"I'm not entirely sure how that happened." Rhea admits, passing her hand lightly through the veilfire. It is soothingly warm to the touch. Solas chuckles lowly.

"It seemed only a matter of time." He says, folding his hands behind his back. "You are the only one with the power to seal breaches, which merits a seat of influence alone. Though beyond that, you have led Inquisition forces on the ground, fought side-by-side with the troops. You have counseled the advisers on decisions that influence the direction of the Inquisition itself. And now they have seen you challenge a self-proclaimed god and emerge in one piece."

Rhea worries her lower lip.

"But what does any of that matter if we're trapped on a frozen mountain?" She asks. Solas smiles, slate eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Fortunately, nobody said you would be leading this Inquisition without any help." He says, gesturing for her to follow him. His steps are deliberate, one foot in front of the other. "And I have a suggestion that may be _quite_ helpful."

He points between two peaks, though what might be beyond them is obscured by the blizzard.

"A few days' trek to the north, there is a fortress. It is old, sturdy, and built by the ancient elves. Tarasyl'an Te'las." He says, lowering his hand. "Humans know it as Skyhold."

"We should scout ahead. To see if it is truly still there." Rhea says warily, though her spirits are already lightened immensely. Solas nods.

"You will lead the scouting party. I will come with you." He says. "If what we find is what I believe to be there, then you will have led the Inquisition to a stronghold that makes Haven seem paltry by comparison."

Rhea pulls her gaze from the ominous gray swathing the space between the two peaks. She nods, resolute. She will find this Skyhold. If she _is_ the one to lead them, then getting everyone off the side of a mountain is as fine a place as any to start.

"I'll tell Cullen to get the forces ready to move." Rhea says, chin high. The wind whips her hair across her face. It stings. "You and I will leave at sun-up."

* * *

 **Thanks so much for reading. Ya'll are the cat's pajamas.**


	3. Violaceae

**Hey lovely folks! Just wanted to say I probably won't be updating this with the same urgency that I have been, but I am definitely going to continue to update it. Just a bit slower. Also, there are some mild spoilers about my other fic, _Spitfire_ , in this chapter. Just as a heads up to anyone who may be reading both. Enjoy!**

* * *

For the fourth time this week, there is a flower on Josephine's desk. It is always the same- a single violet. They are not uncommon in the Frostbacks, and Josephine has noted that several patches grow within Skyhold's walls. Still, she cannot fathom who could possibly be leaving them for her. The first time it happened, she'd suspected Leliana. It wasn't uncommon for the spymaster, also a dear friend, to hide surprises in her drawers or amongst her meticulously organized personal effects. But Leliana's gifts always tended to be of a more practical use. Perhaps it would be a fresh pot of ink, or a refill of her mint tea supply. This was too… frivolous to Leliana's doing. Especially after the next one was left just a day later. She certainly appreciates the sentiment, even if flowers are a tad lacking in creativity. Josephine is loath to admit it, at least out loud, but she does have a definite preference toward more lavish expressions of affection. If this is indeed the intent in leaving flowers; she doesn't know what else it could possibly be. Still, someone in Skyhold has clearly been thinking of her enough to go out of their way to drop a flower on her desk several times in the past week. It's flattering. She lightly picks the violet up by its stem and drops it in a vase with the others. The oldest is starting to droop, but she doubts that she will run out any time soon.

Skyhold has been good to them. She thanks the Maker every day for Solas's knowledge of the place and Rhea's graceful assumption of leadership that brought them to it, even though she's never been one for praying. It is strong; it is safe. And Josephine has her own office! With windows! She smiles as she pulls out her chair and sits, admiring the gentle afternoon sun that streams through the painted glass, casting ribbons of color upon the stone floor. It wasn't in perfect condition when they arrived, but reparations have been well underway for some weeks now. Still, she remembers the day they arrived in huddled droves. How everyone's faces lit up when the walls finally enveloped them. It was as if everyone had expected it to be a mirage of sorts; nobody wanted to truly rejoice until they were standing smack in the middle of it. Even then, she hadn't felt a truly unbridled surge of joy ripple through the Inquisition until Rhea stood before them, holding the ceremonial sword high as she was named Inquisitor. She, a Dalish mage, standing before a crowd of every race and background, was able to move the crowd to such fervor that it had still not left the forces entirely. Josephine bites her lip as she struggles to keep the silly grin from her face. It had been… most enthralling to watch.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Josephine starts and bangs her knee on the underside of her desk. Wincing, she looks up at the smirking Inquisitor in question.

"N-no." She stammers, rubbing her knee. It doesn't hurt, though her calf feels like pins and needles. Rhea quirks an eyebrow.

"We were going to discuss the situation regarding mounts, so I thought." The elf says. "I thought that was today."

"It is, my lady." Josephine says, quickly adopting her role as ambassador. Though the blush clings to her cheeks. Rhea examines the vase of violets quizzically.

"That's really not the best way to keep them, you know." She says, pulling up her own chair. It's considerably plusher than the one she'd commandeered in Haven.

"Do you have any idea who has been leaving them?" Josephine asks. Rhea shakes her head. There is an uncomfortable twinge in Josephine's breast.

"Nope." She says, sinking into her seat across the desk. "Though, if you ask me, flowers are a bit uninspired."

Josephine folds her fingers beneath her chin. She agrees.

"And what, pray tell, is an inspired gift to you, my lady?" She asks, leaning forward just a bit. Rhea grins mischievously.

"Well, I'm really not sure what would be for a lady of _your_ station." The elf says playfully. Josephine rolls her eyes. "Among the Dalish, it's common to make things for the one you're courting. Carvings, ornamental arrowheads for the hunters, charms, poetry sometimes." She winces. "Really _bad_ poetry."

Josephine laughs. "And how much bad poetry have you received in your life? I'm willing to guess plenty!"

"Oh? Why is that, Lady Montilyet?" Rhea asks, amber eyes gleaming under the dancing stained glass. Josephine's breath hitches briefly, but she cannot control the heat pooling under her cheeks.

"You are… objectively, I suppose, very…" She clears her throat. "Well, beautiful."

Rhea's eyebrows rise skeptically, but there is a definite rosiness to those planed cheeks that was not there before. She clears her throat.

"Would _you_ write me bad poetry?" Rhea asks, her tone playful again but there's something else. A curious edge that isn't normally there when she teases Josephine.

"You deserve something even more inspired than terrible poetry." Josephine replies before she realizes exactly what she said. Her hand flies to her mouth, even though it's too late. Rhea is smiling at her like the cat that ate the canary. She brushes her expansive mane of hair over one shoulder, letting it spill down her chest. The way it catches the light, it almost seems spun from gold.

"You're sweet to say so, Josie." She says softly, her eyes boring into Josephine's. She looks as if she's considering something, her expression equal parts gentle and intrigued. It drops soon though, and the Inquisitor mask is firmly in place once again. "Now, we really should talk about acquiring more mounts. Dennet says we should really be investing in harts, which I agree with entirely. They're better at traversing difficult terrain, and we're going to need that now that we're more or less straddling a mountain. Plus, you know, I've always wanted one…"

Josephine watches the Inquisitor speak, trying desperately to pay attention to her words, but she finds herself far more fixated on the shapes her lips make and the way her long, thin hands dance through the air when she talks.

* * *

"I'm telling you, Ruffles, it's _all_ true." Varric says adamantly. Josephine scoffs, leaning back into her armchair.

"He's right." Leliana says, nodding sagely. "Though he _does_ tend to exaggerate at points."

"Isn't that the point of storytelling?" Varric retorts, smiling slyly. "You were a bard, you know how it is."

"Nobody should be able to tell _when_ you're exaggerating."

"Chalk it up to creative differences, then?"

They are off-duty for the night, and Varric and Leliana had mercifully swooped in with a bottle of Antivan brandy, the vintage of which had almost caused Josephine to faint when she read its label. Apparently Rhea had found it a couple of months ago in an abandoned house in the Hinterlands, and had given it to Varric as a gift. Josephine is glad he thought to share it with Leliana and herself. Antivan brandy was never made to be imbibed without company, and she doubts that any of their other companions would truly appreciate it. Present company aside, the rest of their companions are either binge drinkers or uninterested entirely. To Josephine's surprise, Rhea actually falls into the former category. She'd been working late one evening, when she heard raucous giggles and desperate hushes coming from the main hall. When she went to investigate, she'd been greeted with the sight of a red-faced, giggling Inquisitor slung over Iron Bull's shoulder, Dorian and Krem following close behind as they tried to sneak up to their leader's quarters. She hadn't taken Rhea to be as much of a… partier as she is. Though Josephine is aware that the Dalish festivals have been known to get a bit out of hand.

She brings the crystalline glass to her lips and takes a long drink, reveling in the smoothness of the vintage. The warmth that settles in her stomach reminds her too similarly of Rhea, but she figures it must be the hazy sentimentality brandy has always brought out in her.

"Josie." Leliana says. Josephine starts, then looks at her friend with a pointed gaze. The redhead is wearing a knowing smile.

"What?" Josephine retorts hastily. Varric laughs, a deep sound that echoes throughout her office.

"You've been staring off into space for several minutes." Leliana says, eyebrow quirked. "You're thinking about someone."

Josephine blushes and opens her mouth to protest, but Varric interrupts.

"I know that look, Ruffles." He says, waving off her indignant gaze. "It's the same one Hawke would get when she'd start daydreaming about Rivaini."

" _I_ know that look." Leliana chuckles. Varric claps a large hand down on his knee.

"That's right! You and Hawke were an item back in Lothering, weren't you?"

Leliana smirks, crossing her legs. "Once in a while." She says, taking a sip of brandy. Varric shakes his head.

"The Champion of Kirkwall, _and_ the Hero of Ferelden." He says incredulously. "I suppose behind every great woman is another great woman. Though I don't suppose our Inquisitor is next."

Josephine feels her stomach churn, despite the fact she knows how outlandish the idea is. Leliana has been more or less married, if not by any official documentation, to Areth Tabris for the last ten years, despite any distance or time between them. Leliana's expression doesn't change.

"I think it's time to let someone else have a go." She says wryly. Though Josephine knows it's truly because Leliana's heart has not once strayed from her little hero. Varric smiles knowingly, then turns his attention back to the ambassador.

"But I'm dying to know, Ruffles. Who is it that's got you in such a state?"

"Perhaps it's our resident Warden of Skyhold." Leliana says. "He has been rather attentive in his persistent delivery of flowers."

Josephine's brow furrows. "It's Blackwall?"

Leliana looks surprised. It's a rare appearance for the spymaster; very few things are capable of taking her by surprise.

"You didn't know?"

Josephine balks. "Of course not!" She exclaims. Leliana shrugs.

"He hasn't been very subtle about it, Josie. It's hard to miss him, the way he clomps around in those boots of his." She says blithely.

Josephine isn't sure what to make of this. Blackwall is a fine man. She'd gone on a few walks with him around Skyhold's ramparts and they'd made pleasant conversation. He's honorable, rather handsome she supposes, and a rather gentle heart. But she'd never once given a thought to any romantic connection between them. She still isn't. Leliana tuts.

"So, if it isn't Blackwall, who could it be?" She wonders aloud. Josephine takes a nervous sip of brandy.

"There's no point in hiding it from her, Ruffles." Varric cautions, crinkled eyes sparkling with mirth. "You know she'll find out one way or another."

Leliana's ice-blue eyes are on her intently, measuring her. Against anyone else, Josephine has perfected her mask of indifference. But Leliana knows her too well.

"It isn't Dorian. He's good to look at, but you're no fool." She says, really only to herself. "Iron Bull, maybe, but you've never been one for the bulkier types. Cullen doesn't pay much mind to anyone, except for Cassandra when they're bickering. Sera's shirts will never be clean enough for you. Vivienne, well she's too cold. Fine for some, but not for you. You told me that yourself. Krem, perhaps? But you don't spend much time by the tavern, and I don't think I've ever seen him step beyond eyeshot of it. I don't think Solas gives much credence to anyone not elven, and we _know_ it isn't Blackwall."

Josephine squirms, and Leliana's eyes light up.

"Cassandra is a good friend to you, but again, you're not foolish enough to bark up that tree. So that leaves the Inquisitor."

"Leliana, don't be ridiculous." Josephine says, rolling her eyes in a way that she hopes looks ineffectual. "My relationship with the Inquisitor is purely professional."

"She looks at you too, you know." The Orlesian woman says lightly. Varric smiles and takes a long pull of brandy.

"Nothing wrong with letting your professional entanglements get a bit more entangled than is professional." He muses. Leliana purses her lips, but says nothing otherwise.

Josephine looks between them. She should be protesting, should she not? Yes, Rhea is incredibly beautiful and a truly wonderful person, but they're _friends_. And, moreover, they are colleagues. There's never been any reason to believe they're anything… more. Still, she cannot urge her objections past her throat because Leliana and Varric are probably right. They _are_ right. Rhea Lavellan is the only thing Josephine spends any time thinking about, outside of her work for the Inquisition. Even her thoughts of Antiva, of home, are punctuated with Josephine's mental lists of what she would like to show Rhea should they ever have the opportunity to go.

"I suppose we will never know, will we?" She says, lifting her brandy glass to her lips with a half-smile. Perhaps she's being ridiculous, but perhaps Leliana and Varric are right; maybe Rhea has been thinking of Josephine in the same way.

The following week, Josephine finds a halla figurine, carved out of white soapstone, on her desk.

* * *

 **Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is always appreciated as well, but the fact that you've read what I wrote all the way down to the bottom to find this silly footnote is truly a gift to me.**


	4. Sparring

**I had a very productive night, for once. Anyway, sorry for the delay but here it is, finally!**

* * *

Rhea winces as she feels the now-familiar sting of the flat of a practice blade. This time, it glances across her arm. Her muscles spasm in response.

"No good, Inky." Sera chides as they reset back to a traditional sparring stance. "You want to end up with a Grey Warden sword wedged up your arse?"

Rhea wipes sweat from her forehead. It glistens on the back of her hand in the deceptively warm sun.

"Again, then." She says. The decidedly more tempestuous elf giggles, shaking her head.

"You need a break." Sera says, lips parted in a wide grin. "Go on, meet me back here when the sun is…" She trails off, shading her eyes. She points at an indistinguishable point in the sky. "There! Sky should be all pink at that point. Pinky for Inky!"

Rhea snorts, but bobs her head in affirmation nonetheless. Sera traipses off to do Creators-know-what. Rhea plonks her training blade in the bin at the edge of the drill field and sits beside it, enjoying the shade afforded to her by a tall, gnarled pine. Cullen is training a pack of new recruits on the far side of the field. Rhea appreciates his efforts; it's not often a top commander takes the time to personally work with novice enlisters. He is a good man. If only there were more of his type wielding such authority.

She sighs, plucking at her sweat-drenched tunic. Sera is a ruthless coach, but she's truly grateful for the help.

Two weeks prior, on a trip to Crestwood, Rhea and her retinue had stumbled upon a large fort. Perfect for the Inquisition, despite being run over with bandits. Still, they'd managed to take the fortress, but while they fought through the driving rain, Rhea realized that growing up Dalish had not prepared her for using her magic in such close quarters. After about a dozen bandits had gotten too close for comfort, Rhea decided that she ought to learn how to properly handle a blade. With the siege of Adamant looming in the immediate future, she thought it pertinent that she at least have some rudimentary grasp of swordplay. Sera was the dark horse candidate, but ultimately she was really the only suitable choice. Cullen is too disciplined to hierarchy to raise a blade against his commander, Cassandra and Blackwall both rely too heavily on their shields to teach her how to fight without, and Bull could easily rend her in half without so much as a sneeze. Sera matches her in size, is quick with a short blade, and does not hold back.

Rhea rubs her arm gingerly, urging healing magic to pour forth from her fingers.

Perhaps she ought to hold back a little more. The Dalish elf's muscles are starting to wear from the torment.

She leans back against the soft grass. It tickles her skin in a pleasant way that congeals into a thick, homesick knot in her stomach. Rhea sighs, gaze trained on the sparse clouds that blow overhead. The overwhelming bizarreness of her situation has yet to cease affecting her. Even when the Keeper sent her half a world away to spy on the Conclave, she hadn't even given the slightest thought to the notion that she might not return. She wouldn't ever be able to return, she thinks. Not as long as the Anchor is fixed to her hand. Her fist clenches, and there is a brief pulse of ethereal green light in the corner of her eye. It no longer pains her as much as it did when Cassandra and the others found her at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but perhaps it's possible she's just grown accustomed to it. She closes her eyes, relishing the slight breeze that caresses her flushed skin.

After several minutes, she begins to feel the exhaustion wracking her limbs begin to tug at her consciousness. Sleep does sound appealing. Forty winks before dinner _would_ leave her much more refreshed for the impending beating Sera would surely dole out on her. Perhaps enough to return the favor for once.

"That hardly seems a comfortable spot to nap, Rhea." A harsh voice, cloaked in a thick Nevarran accent, interjects. The Inquisitor cracks an eyelid. Cassandra stands tall above her, arms crossed.

"It isn't so bad." She replies, stretching her arms above her head lazily. "Have you ever tried it?"

Cassandra makes a small noise in the back of her throat. The crunch of grass indicates she's taken a seat beside the elf.

"No, but perhaps I've been too fortunate. I've always had a bed to rest in when I needed it." The warrior says. Rhea smiles.

"You say fortunate; I say you're missing out." She says. "There's nothing quite like waking up with sticks in your hair and bugs in your nose."

Cassandra snorts derisively, but when Rhea opens her eyes, the Seeker is smirking.

"I suppose there isn't anything quite like _that_."

Rhea shrugs. "It's got its own sort of charm. Beds aren't really a staple of Dalish camps- it's mostly just cots and sleeping rolls."

"How do you find sleeping in the Inquisitor's chambers, then?"

Rhea grins. "Decidedly more charming than sleeping on the ground."

"I thought so." Cassandra says, her tone playfully smug.

"Charm is for the birds when you've got a goose-down mattress, I suppose." Rhea says. "Everyone back home would give me an earful for sleeping indoors."

"Where is home?" Cassandra asks. Normally, Rhea would give some kind of flippant, noncommittal response. But the Seeker sounds genuinely curious. She sighs.

"I don't know any more." She says wistfully. "The plan was to dip down through the Free Marches for a spell, around Ostwick. But I haven't heard word from my clan for a few weeks."

"Does that make you nervous?" Cassandra probes. Rhea shakes her head, eyes trained on the wispy clouds above.

"If anything had happened, another clan would have sent word." She explains. "Clan Lavellan keeps close ties with a lot of other clans that frequent the Free Marches. My guess is that they're trying to keep their heads down. The Lavellan name is more recognizable than it's ever been before. Notoriety and Dalish clans don't tend to mix well."

"But you've had some contact with them, yes? Since you became Inquisitor?" Cassandra continues. Rhea wonders where the sudden curiosity stems from. Not that it isn't appreciated.

"I have."

"How do they feel about you being styled as the 'Herald of Andraste'?"

Rhea snorts, glancing at Cassandra. "Ah, that old chestnut." She mumbles. Cassandra's eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly. She doesn't say anything, though, so Rhea continues. "I don't think it really matters to them what shemlen want to call me. It certainly doesn't to me."

"You don't believe in Andraste?"

Rhea's brow furrows. This certainly wasn't the type of conversation she wanted to get into with Cassandra, of all people. She's certain the woman shits verses from the Chant of Light. Still, Rhea doesn't much believe in dodging questions.

"I don't see how believing in elven gods and believing in Andraste have to be mutually exclusive." She says mildly. "But I keep the faith of my people, if that's what you're asking."

Cassandra is quiet. Rhea takes that as a cue to keep talking.

"I suppose I don't _disbelieve_ in anything. But I don't know if it really was Andraste that saved me, or a spirit, or what have you. That's why I always figured you'd be much better suited for this job than I. You have convictions. I have a glowing scar."

"A glowing scar that just so happens to be _exactly_ what we need." Cassandra adds. Rhea shrugs, conceding the point.

"Do you ever wish you were the Inquisitor, Cassandra?" She asks, plucking shoots of grass idly. The Seeker scoffs.

"Maker, no." She says, a smile lighting her tone. "I have never desired the spotlight, nor do I think I would fare well beneath it."

"You'd be crazy to think that Thedas isn't watching you just as closely as they are me." Rhea says, shooting a glance at the other woman. The scar on her cheek stands out starkly against her pale olive skin.

"And you know that isn't true." Cassandra retorts. Rhea laughs, pulling a dandelion from the soil and leaning back. She twirls the stem between her fingers.

"I know, I just thought maybe you'd believe it. This job's a lot of pressure to handle alone."

Cassandra exhales, and Rhea cranes her neck to find the Seeker staring at her intensely. Her eyes are almost black.

"You are not alone, Rhea." She says seriously. The elf worries her lip and drops the dandelion. She leans back to watch the clouds once more.

"I know, Cass." She says, closing her eyes. "I know."

* * *

By the end of her second practice bout with Sera, Rhea is all but dragging herself through the halls of Skyhold to her meeting with the advisors. She had done better, but Sera had still landed some particularly stinging blows that were already congealing into thick bruises. She'll heal them during Cassandra and Cullen's obligatory argument, she reasons. As she passes Varric, the dwarf hands her a goblet filled to the brim with red wine. He doesn't even bother to look from his writing, but she mumbles an earnest thank-you nonetheless. Taking a swig, she continues to shuffle to her destination. As she nears the side door to the War Room, (and more importantly, Josie's office), she catches a glimpse of the Skyhold throne. Her stomach churns uncomfortably at the sight, so she pours more wine on it. That helps.

She gives a cursory knock on Josephine's door, though she's certain the ambassador has been in their meeting chambers for well over an hour at this point. Rhea smiles at the thought before pushing the door open. There _is_ someone there, but it definitely _isn't_ Josephine.

"Hello, Blackwall." She greets, trying to seem less baffled than she truly is. The man starts and whirls.

"Oh, Inquisitor!" He booms, then blushes. "I didn't think… Well, I…" He stammers, then clears his throat. "I thought the meeting had started already."

Rhea waves her hand dismissively, taking a sip of wine.

"I told them to start without me today. I've been training with Sera, and you know how that can drag."

"Ah, yes." Blackwall mumbles, scuffing his boot on the floor. There is an awkward silence as Rhea notices what the man is holding for the first time.

"A violet, huh?" She asks, gesturing at the flower that looks hilariously dainty in the Grey Warden's massive hands. He looks down at it, as if suddenly remembering it is there, and flushes a shade of purple. Gives the violet a run for its coin, Rhea muses.

"Well, erm… Yes, it would seem so." He hems, dropping it on the desk lightly as if it might burn him. Rhea raises an eyebrow. An ugly feeling is spreading through her gut, but she quells that with another liberal splash of wine. Now is not the time.

"I'm sure she'll quite like it." She says lightly. "I think I'm really late, now."

"Of course, Inquisitor. Don't mind me, I'm just… ah. Leaving." He says, edging around her while leaving several paces of space between them. She does not watch him leave, but takes a slow drink of wine and examines the dust motes that twirl in the fading orange sunlight.

"Inquisitor?" Blackwall says, his voice at the edge of the room. Rhea looks over her shoulder.

"If you could not mention this to Ambassador Montilyet, I would be much obliged."

Rhea nods and raises her cup. The Warden gives a grateful half-bow before ducking out of the room. The elf sighs, regarding the violet with raised eyebrows. At least that mystery is solved, she supposes. With a bracing stretch, she ambles to the War Room. Upon entering, the advisors all look up from whatever documents they're studying. They utter various greetings before returning to their silent planning. Save for Josephine. The Antivan woman smiles warmly as Rhea takes a seat across the table from her, golden eyes dancing in the dying sunlight. There is warmth spreading through Rhea's stomach and it certainly isn't from the wine.

"How was training?" Josephine practically purrs. Rhea's mouth goes dry, but she smiles anyway.

"Productive and horrible." She replies, setting her cup down on the worn oak table. Leliana slides a coaster beneath it almost instantly, tutting.

"Sorry, Leliana." Rhea says, her tone apologetic through constant practice. Josephine giggles and the Inquisitor shoots her a conspiratorial smile. She swears the diplomat blushes as she stands, smoothing her ruffled pants.

"Now, Cullen, would you care to bring the Inquisitor up to speed on what we've covered thus far?" She asks. The blonde man nods, beckoning for Josephine to give him her notes. As the Antivan woman bends to fetch the parchment from her clipboard, Rhea notices something white perched upon it.

The halla carving has been fixed to the wood, standing proud above the countless sheaves of paper pinned to it. She cannot keep the smile from her lips as Josephine pulls the meeting transcript off the clipboard. The ugly feeling vanishes instantly. Rhea takes a sip of wine, triumphant and ready to save the world for another day.

* * *

 **As always, thank you so much for taking the time to read. Feedback is always appreciated, I live for your critiques. Hopefully the next update comes sooner rather than later. Until then, have a great time out there everyone!**


	5. Redire

**This one came to me a lot easier than I thought. Probably because I've resolved to play through all three games in a row. Wish me luck!**

 **There's another spoiler for _Spitfire_ in this chapter, if you also happen to be reading that. It's probably just going to keep coming up, so if you happen to be reading both, there's your warning!**

 **Also, thank you to everyone who has followed/favorited/reviewed this story. I don't believe I've done that yet, but it really truly means so very much to me.**

 **As always, enjoy, you beautiful critters out there.**

* * *

The news coming from Adamant is not good. Yes, the Inquisition won the day with everyone leaving (relatively) unscathed. Save for Stroud. Josephine wonders if the man had any family left she could send reparations to. Just another item to add to the rapidly growing list of things to do in the wake of the battle, though she makes sure to circle it in red ink to make sure it is handled expediently. She is disproportionately relieved to hear that, despite falling headfirst into a live breach, Rhea is on her way back to Skyhold. She has been sending maids to the Inquisitor's chamber daily to make sure that the room is suitably comfortable upon her arrival. A trite gesture, but one that would likely go a long way in recuperating their leader's mind and body. Josephine has also send missives directing the requisition of as many casks of ale that can fit through Skyhold's gates. A full-blown banquet would be in bad taste, given the gravity of what was discovered during the battle, but spirits have a way of lifting the spirits. She adds an addendum to the order on a small scroll and hands it to the attendant waiting patiently beside her desk. Dorian and Vivienne would certainly not suffer the same liquor she had ordered for the rest of the camp. She smiles at the messenger as the dwarf bows before making his exit.

Leaning back into the plush cushioning of her armchair with a mighty sigh, she unrolls the scroll sent to her by Scout Harding in the small hours of the morning.

 _Ambassador Montilyet-_

 _Adamant is secure. Inquisitor & company, (Serah Hawke included), are fine. Stroud was lost. Headed back now, expect full return of troops within a fortnight. We should be there sooner. Commander Rutherford has left retinue of Inquisition officers at Adamant to discourage stragglers from banding together. _

_Inquisitor has decided to bring back any Wardens that surrendered. Good luck explaining that one._

 _Inquisition Scout Harding_

Enclosed within the scroll are individual accounts of what occurred in the Fade. Iron Bull's is terse- Josephine believes the stray ink splotches on the page are a side effect of several broken quills. Dorian's is woefully academic and self-indulgent. Cassandra's simply asserts that Andraste did not save Rhea before they first found her, but does not go any deeper than that. Josephine has not read Rhea's account, however. Reading everyone else's seemed to fit comfortably within the lines of her responsibility as ambassador, but the notion of reading Rhea's feels like a violation to Josephine. She decides to wait and hear it firsthand from the Inquisitor herself.

Josephine moves to fill her teacup once more. Royal elfroot- it's grown on her. Taking a sip, she leafs through the countless stacks of parchment, searching for anything that may have escaped her notice. To her surprise, there is one letter left unopened. It is sealed with Leliana's trademark nightingale insignia. Brow furrowed, Josephine breaks the purple wax and folds open the letter. In Leliana's neat scrawl it reads:

 _Dearest Josie,_

 _You need a break. Come up for lunch?_

 _Leliana_

Josephine smiles slightly. She has no idea how Leliana managed to sneak this by her, but the spymaster's subterfuge has become endearing to her at this point. Sighing, she supposes her friend is right. She's scarcely left her office since Rhea and Cullen led the march to Adamant. Neither has Leliana, she suspects. Gathering her teacup and saucer, she makes toward the rookery. Climbing the stairs takes no small amount of effort, but she manages to summit the tower after taking a brief respite to check in with Grand Enchanter Fiona. She doesn't bother knocking as she enters the topmost room of the spire. Leliana sits at her desk, flipping through field reports that Josephine is certain are much more detailed than the ones she has received.

"You've managed to lure me out." Josephine declares, taking a seat on the modest wooden chair opposite the bard.

"I hardly think my office counts as 'out'." Leliana scoffs, her pale eyes twinkling. "Still, I'm glad you came."

"Well, I was promised lunch." Josephine says, taking a sip of tea. Leliana smiles mildly, gesturing toward a basket of crusty bread and cheese.

"I'll have something more substantial sent up in a bit, but in the meantime help yourself." She says. Josephine does, picking the softest-looking slice of bread and idly tearing it apart.

"So…?" Josephine leads, doubting Leliana simply summoned her up for mere chit-chat. There hasn't been much time for that in months. The redhead sets down the papers she's holding.

"There's been no sign of her." She breathes, sounding defeated. Josephine frowns.

"In light of what was discovered there, that is a good thing, no?" She asks. Leliana pinches the bridge of her nose. Josephine's heart breaks for her friend.

"It is, but no less maddening. I haven't heard from her in months, Josie."

Josephine rubs her arm self-consciously. She isn't sure what to say. She misses Areth, too. Certainly not as much as Leliana; that would be impossible. But the rough-and-tumble little elf had become a dear friend to her in the past few years. They are much closer in age than she and Leliana were, and once Josephine had gotten past the atrocious table manners, she and the Hero of Ferelden had warmed to each other considerably.

"You could try to send a letter." Josephine offers. "I think you should, in light of recent events. The former Warden-Commander of Ferelden really should know of these things."

"She still is commander; Nathaniel Howe is just filling in while she's away." Leliana corrects absently, her gaze trained on something outside. "He has been trying as well."

"Still nothing?"

Leliana nods. Josephine frowns. She seems far-and-away in a manner typically reserved for mourning Divine Justinia. But she cannot truly believe her Warden to be gone. Leliana is reserved and pensive, but if she honestly believed something happened to Areth, she would not have stayed put in Skyhold for a single hour. Some would call it a weakness, but Josephine finds that kind of love and devotion to be nothing short of admirable. The ambassador sighs, placing her hand comfortingly over Leliana's.

"Send the letter anyway, Leliana." Josephine urges. Leliana swallows thickly but gives the barest nod. Satisfied, Josephine lifts her hand. The spymaster seems to snap from her reverie at the motion and fixes Josephine with carefully-measured blue eyes.

"The troubles of a decade-long relationship can hardly be interesting to you. Tell me, how do things go with our Inquisitor Lavellan?" She asks, her tone casual but clearly intentioned to be anything but. Leliana is looking for information. And hardly being subtle about it. Josephine looks down at the slice of bread she's picked apart, now scattered before her on the table.

"What do you mean, how do things go? She's been gone well over a week now." She says, plucking at a peeling splinter of wood. Leliana snorted, pouring herself a glass of wine from the seemingly-omnipresent bottle that rests beside her paperwork.

"Before that, Josie." Leliana clarifies. "Has she continued to shower you with intricate carvings and fine silks?"

"There were never silks, Leliana." Josephine mutters, fighting the blush creeping over her cheeks. The redhead waves a dismissive hand.

"I must be confusing her with Alistair. They both have a penchant for carving, though. Honest mistake. I wonder if he still does."

Josephine often forgets that Leliana counts the King of Ferelden amongst her dearest friends. A younger, more socially inclined Josephine would have been beside herself at being one degree of separation from a king. But the way Leliana talks about Alistair, he comes across as being a more brotherly, oafish figure than typically comes to mind when imagining royalty. Josephine sighs, accepting the cup of wine scooted across the table.

"To answer your question, no. Just the halla figurine." She says quietly. Did Rhea lose interest? She could never tell with these types of things. Leliana shrugs.

"Perhaps she does not want to appear overzealous, unlike another suitor of yours." She says, slyly watching Josephine over the rim of her glass. Josephine scoffs, taking a sip of her wine. It is mulled; she resigns herself to not getting any more work done today.

"Blackwall hardly counts as a suitor." The ambassador corrects. Leliana cocks an eyebrow.

"And why not?"

"Because I don't find him suitable."

Leliana's eyes crease and Josephine can't help but notice the lines that weren't there just a year ago.

"I suppose he is a bit… lumbering for your refined tastes." She says, fiddling with the clasp of her hood, draped over her shoulders. "Though I can't say I'm not a bit surprised that it's the Inquisitor you've taken such a shine to. Dalish? What will the gentry say?"

Josephine swallows her mouthful of wine.

"Sod the gentry." She says, feeling bolder with every passing moment. Wine is a true wonder of the world. Leliana laughs.

"Hardly a commendable attitude for an ambassador, but as your friend I'm proud." The bard says. Josephine giggles, leaning her elbow on the table and resting her chin upon her palm.

"I can't quite say what it is. There's something so gracefully feral about her." She admits, blushing. Leliana smirks.

"I can see the appeal." She says. Josephine watches her friend intently.

"What was it like when you first met Areth?" She asks. Leliana is surprised, but indulges her anyway.

"Not wonderful." The spymaster says dryly, taking a pull from her glass. "She probably hated me for a while. Or, seemed to, at least. I suppose then she was angry about a lot of things, and had good reason to be. But I knew when I saw her, somehow we were bound to be inextricably connected one way or another. Despite all the gnashing of teeth and insults, it turns out I was right."

"That's… not as romantic as I had expected." Josephine says, incredulous. Leliana shakes her head, her eyes far away.

"It certainly wasn't, at first. But it got there. Areth can be painfully, delightfully sappy at times, when she isn't starting riots or leading crusades." She says. "But we've always made it work."

"I suppose it can't always be a chevalier sweeping a damsel off her feet, can it?" Josephine mutters, swirling the contents of her glass.

"No." Leliana replies gently. "It's never so simple. Not in the positions _we_ find ourselves in. But it's never so impossible, either."

The Orlesian woman looks back to the window.

"I can't say which is more difficult, though." She continues. "Being with them when they're travelling… Watching them fall in battle and praying that they'll be able to stand back up when the fighting is done, or waiting, staring at the horizon like some maudlin heroine for any sign that they're coming back at all."

"I suppose it always ends with the hope that they'll come back to sweep us off our feet." Josephine says, rubbing her eyes tiredly. Leliana smiles, though Josephine isn't sure if it's because of her. Those blue eyes are far-off again.

* * *

The Inquisitor arrives to much fanfare. Josephine is proud of her work. A barrel of clan-brewed Dalish ale is broken open as soon as she sets foot within the gates, an overflowing stein pressed into her hand instantly. Rhea smiles broadly as she raises the mug, and the crowd cheers; but her amber gaze is set upon Josephine. The ambassador raises her own tumbler of brandy and they toast each other across the courtyard. As the rest of the Inquisitor's band press through the gates, Josephine is pleased to see they're all looking rather well. Save for a few bruises and stitched-up cheeks and foreheads, everyone is intact. Even Cassandra is smiling broadly, somehow looking ten years younger. Josephine's heart swells at the reaction. She hadn't expected them to look so… delighted. Iron Bull carries Sera on his broad shoulders, both lifting their own tankards high to a chorus of raucous shouts. Varric and Cora Hawke seem to already have started their own drinking competition, chugging ale while maintaining intense eye contact. Dorian and Vivienne have already been brought their more refined choice liquors, Josephine is pleased to note, and sip them mildly from crystalline decanters. Blackwall is looking somewhat uncomfortable, surrounded by young Grey Wardens jostling to ensure his cup does not run dry. Cullen and Cassandra chat animatedly over the rims of their drinks while Solas and Cole take the entire scene in with varying levels of enthusiasm. Josephine is relieved and more content than she'd been in weeks.

"It's some party." Comes an airy voice over her shoulder. Josephine turns to find Rhea standing easily in her armor. It's filthy, covered in dirt and dust and Maker-knows what else. But does she ever look good, with her auburn hair pulled into a messy bun atop her head, sun-kissed cheeks, and half-empty ale stein held gracefully to her lips. Perhaps not the Inquisitor that Thedas expected, but the one it so desperately needed.

"I was hoping you'd think so." Josephine saus, her cheeks heating ever so slightly. "A warm welcome home is well-deserved."

Rhea smiles gently, tucking a wayward lock of hair behind a thin, tapered ear.

"Excellent choice on the ale, by the way. Clan Ralaferin really knows how to make the stuff." She says, taking another generous sip.

"It came on excellent recommendation from Neria."

Rhea makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, her eyes unreadable but latched intently to Josephine's own. The ambassador coughs awkwardly, glancing down at her feet.

"It is… good to see you back." She mutters, the heat in her cheeks blossoming to a full blush.

"It's good to be home." Rhea says earnestly. Josephine looks up, surprised.

"You consider Skyhold home, now?" She finds herself asking, unable to stop. Rhea smiles, the soft crook of her lips puckering a dent in her right cheek. Josephine's heart flutters.

"Sure. Skyhold." The Inquisitor says quietly, almost inaudible under the roar of the crowd below. Her eyes roam over the revelers, painted by the retreating sun. She yawns, almost comically wide. "Maybe I should go enjoy a doze. I doubt the party will be done by the time I wake up."

"Of that I'm certain." Josephine agrees. Rhea nods and finishes the last of her ale. She clears her throat.

"Well… I'll be off to my room. Should you need me for any Inquisitorial… stuff." She says wryly. "Though I think I've had enough of that for a couple days."

"I could walk you up, if you would like." Josephine offers. The words spill forth before she has the chance to think upon what they might imply. Curse this incredible woman.

Rhea is grinning, though.

"I would like that, Josie." She says, offering her arm. Josephine's chest alights as she loops her arm around Rhea's, surprised at the muscle that she can feel even beneath her heavily-padded leather armor. She flushes.

Perhaps this is as close as she can get to chevaliers and being swept off her feet, though she can't find it in her to complain as they walk through Skyhold arm-in-arm.

Josephine wakes up curled against Rhea's chest on her sofa, the next day. Morning's first light streams through a crack in the drawn balcony doors, and the embers of last night's fire have long gone cold. Josephine smiles, shakes her head ever so slightly, then rests it back upon her Inquisitor again, reveling in the steady heartbeat thrumming beneath her cheek.

This is _better_ , actually.

* * *

 **Let me know what you think, if you feel so inspired! If not, thank you for reading regardless. Wind in my sails, you are.**


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